Franz Ferdinand

With the cash from the Thesaurus Musicarum sales snowing in, Editor-in-Chief Ryan Schreiber decided\n\ to treat the entire staff ...

With the cash from the Thesaurus Musicarum sales snowing in, Editor-in-Chief Ryan Schreiber decided to treat the entire staff of Pitchfork to a weekend retreat at Steamers, a Finnish bath/scat fetish "bunny ranch" in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Having just completed principle photography on a documentary biopic detailing my creative life, I decided to tag along despite no longer feeling part of the team. Due to seniority, Ryan gave me the back bench on the bus. As the fresh writers swapped customized iPod skins and debated the cultural impact of Xiu Moo, I counted passing silos while listening to worn Britpop mix cassettes and neurotically rubbing the growing bald spot on my scalp. Ryan slipped in next to me. He pulled a maroon jewelry box from his Member's Only.

"I was going to wait to give this to you," he said.

"Oh, I, thanks," I said.

Inside the box sat a green lapel pin shaped like the number six laid over Poseidon's trident.

"It's a service pin. It's jade," Ryan said.

"Yeah, I get the joke. I just don't see why six years is an anniversary to celebrate," I said.

"That's how long the Pixies were around. Besides, I wanted to ask you to write a new review," he said.

"Ah, Jesus, man, I knew there was a catch," I sighed.

"No, no, hear me out. I really want you to do one of your trademark concept reviews. Those always get tons of hits. People love them and hate them," he said.

He had a point. I had procrastinated on a promise. I looked up the aisle of the bus and spotted Ott hunched over a laptop, biting his tongue and copying studiously from a Thesaurus. No, no, Franz Ferdinand was the perfect vehicle for a comeback. I'm half Hungarian. My family had two dogs named Huszar. I've been looking for a way to work schnauzers and Magyar into a review.

It didn't have to be that contrived. The parallels were fluorescent: Franz and I were both stubbornly nostalgic for the decade-gone heights of Britpop. In their silk button-downs and slickly combed hair, the band mimicked the gauche decadence of Suede to such a point that it appeared they were wearing Anderson and Butler's hand-me-down menswear. Each song on their self-titled debut catwalk swaggered with sucked-in cheeks like Alex James' effortless bounce on Blur's "Girls & Boys". If that sounds too hopelessly recent and uncool for the hipsters, I could go obtuse and say Franz Ferdinand revive the sounds of the John Cale-era Squeeze or the New York never-weres The Necessaries. I could erroneously throw Franz Ferdinand in with the recent dance-punk, freak-shit, whatever "scene." But I'm calling a spade a spade. Call it Scotpop if you feel uncomfortable.

Not content to kickstart their career on an album laden mostly with potential, the Glaswegians have banged out a celebratory LP with lyrics bearing surprising satire, wit, and unabashed romance. On the upcoming single, "Dark of the Matinee", Alexander Kapranos positions himself as a bitter cynic who eventually gives in to fame (though it may be, as the title suggests, in the dimmer regions of the spotlight) after being charmed by an attractive optimist, and, one would imagine, the unapologetic funk of the track itself. By the last verse, Kapranos imagines himself smiling wide, sitting with Abba-loving AM talk show host Terry Wogan. With their meteoric rise, Franz Ferdinand could very well be within a year of it. They're poised to be the next Duran Duran or the next Pulp. Or they could be the next Menswear. In any case, it will be a spectacle.

"Jacqueline" opens the album deceivingly with gentle acoustic strums and student poem prattle before raygun guitars and splashing cymbals annihilate any notion of plaintive reflection. Kaparanos soon blurts phrases like "it's so much better on holiday," "I'm so drunk I don't mind if you kill me," "I'm alive, I'm alive," and "we need the money." The pace never lets up. Even their breakthrough single, "Take Me Out", blatantly changes its mind from Pixies-like pop to squiggly guitar disco a quarter of the way through. Only on "Cheating on You" do the drums drop their high-hat riding for stuttering punk.

Franz Ferdinand rarely stray far from the dueling-guitars-with-occasional-keyboard approach, granting even the bounciest dance floor numbers pleasantly rough edges, but the final two tracks peak with greater arrangement and studio flourish. Flashy flanger-flecked guitar and layered, lachrymose keyboards add an epic air to the tale of confused post-relationship emotions of "Come on Home", while "40 Ft" tiptoes in on spy guitars. Like the overlooked brilliance of Parklife's Side B, the song turns back to triumphant, operatic music spiked with pessimism and noise. Even Damon Albarn's beloved melodica makes an appearance 2\xBD minutes in.

Like all lasting records, Franz Ferdinand steps up to the plate and boldly bangs on the door to stardom. There's no consideration for what trends have just come and gone. There's no waffling or concessions for people who won't get it. As with all great entertainment, it will divide opinion. I honestly couldn't remember Volodrag, The Hold My Coat, Santa Schultz, or the bands in whose reviews they appeared. I'd made that stuff up to amuse myself during boring albums. As I told Ryan, Franz Ferdinand didn't need a concept. We would all remember this one. Like that wizard's cap.